Ivan Hewett talks to Sara Mitra, Emily Wright and Alice Russell, three members
of a rising generation of female stars.

In a history of female jazz singers, the chapter on Britain would be short. Jazz singing, like the French chanteuse tradition, is all about baring your soul and plumbing the despair that lurks at the bottom of the whisky or absinthe glass. We prefer self-deprecation and pulling ourselves together over a cup of tea.

However, since the Sixties, things have changed. Cleo Laine blazed a trail, followed by Norma Winstone. In their different ways, they struck a distinctively British note, humorous and sassy in one case, sophisticatedly understated in the other. Both are now grandes dames of the festival circuits, and win praise even across the Atlantic and at European festivals. And, in the past 20 years, there’s been an explosion of female jazz vocal talent: Clare Teal, Claire Martin, Barb Jungr, Gwyneth Herbert among them. Three especially talented names among this new wave of jazz singers will be at this year’s Brecon Jazz Festival.

Alice Russell, the most senior of them, has one of those deep, bluesy-soulful voices that we always thought only Americans could produce. She’s just released a new album, Pot of Gold. Sara Mitra and Emily Wright have both recently released debut albums, Mitra with her own band, Wright with guitarist Jon Hyde. In their different ways they strike a quieter, more intimate note. All three perform their own songs, as well as standards.

The results are terrific. But what I want to know is: why jazz? What led them into a genre that’s been unfashionable for more than half a century? It certainly wasn’t a jazz-loving parent.

“My dad was into classical music,” says Russell, “but I got into jazz through all kinds of crazy fusion music. The thing about jazz is it’s all about breaking genres, so you get into it from different angles.”

The other two nod in agreement. “I got into jazz when I was singing in a neo-soul band after uni,” says Mitra (uni was Cambridge). “The guys [in her band] were really into things like Jill Scott and Erykah Badu, which I really liked, but I wanted to know where all that came from. That’s when I discovered the early blues singers like Ethel Waters and Ma Rainey and Bessie Smith, and all these things I had no genetic connection to.”

It turns out that these very English women (Mitra is actually a mix of Irish and Indian, but describes herself as a proper Essex girl) have something in common with those legendary figures of the past: they sang in choirs as children, and they have faith in their ability to perform “by ear”, thanks to an early training in stringed instruments through the Suzuki method. So they have that confidence, so rare in our classically trained youth, to get together with like-minded musicians and just try things out.

“Of course, it can be a bit shambolic, if you’re not sure of the genre,” says Wright. “You try out a bit of free improv, you might try a standard, or even something folky.”

Trying different things is what makes the new generation different. The older singers knew where they were coming from, but these three singers are having to construct an identity as they go along.

This explains why they’re not quite comfortable with the “jazz singer” label. “I’d love to be a jazz singer,” says Mitra, “but I don’t think I have the right to call myself one yet.” Why? “Because… well, the ones I like are all in their forties or fifties. Or even older, like Sheila Jordan, who’s this wonderful vintage lady. They’ve really lived through something.”

Wright has a different view of this. “I think it takes time because there’s so much stuff out there: it’s all available on the internet, and you take something from all of it. It takes a while to work out what’s really yours.”

As if that weren’t enough, there’s the sheer practical difficulty of juggling life on the road with trying to maintain relationships .

“It’s very consuming thing, like having a relationship with someone. It’s a love-hate relationship I have with the whole touring thing,” says Russell. “I love that buzz of being on the road, but sometimes I’m just dying to get back to my own bed.”

Wright admits to finding the business of being on display challenging. “It’s not really me, in a way,” she says. “Sometimes I meet old family friends from when I was a kid, and they say to me, 'I can’t believe you’re a singer, you used to hate having your photo taken!’ [This is still true, as I saw at the photo-shoot.] “Also I have to tell myself not to worry about appearances because you often don’t look good when you’re singing.”

This brings a chorus of agreement. “You have to pull all these stupid faces!” wails Mitra. “I’ve got this ridge here from having to produce all those loud notes,” says Russell, pointing between her eyes.

Then there are audiences, who can be great, “especially in America”, says Russell, who braved one of the shrines of soul music in Detroit and received a warm welcome. But you also get the hecklers, and the odd crazy person. Mitra tells the story of the audience member who climbed on her guitarist’s lap and pulled down his trousers. “Luckily, they hustled him away before he could do whatever it was he wanted to do,” she says, while the other two look on in disbelief.

When I mention money, there’s another chorus, this time of wry laughter. “I remember a really well-known jazz musician told me, 'Don’t expect it to get any better’,” says Wright. “Sometimes you have a month when you’re flush, but the next two you don’t earn anything.”

Russell regrets that jazz isn’t supported here as well as it is in France, but Mitra thinks it’s a good thing that jazz is left to sink or swim. “Yes, it’s difficult to earn a living, and we all have to do other things on the side, but isn’t that better than the situation in opera, which is this great bloated thing that’s artificially kept alive?

“We do what we do because we love it, and audiences come because they like what they do. It keeps things real.”